


Softness

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Peace, Peter's POV, Vignette, anniversary of death, character sketch, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: The night air was light, scented lightly with freshly falling snow. The sky was a bleeding heart, purple hues pumping down into a rich red, falling down the New York Skyline. Stars replaced by skyscrapers and airplanes, shooting stars in their own rights.It was quiet, as quiet as Queens could be anyway. There was little more than the wooshing of cars as they passed, a few honks, some rampant shouts but for the most part the city that never slept was sleeping.





	Softness

The night air was light, scented lightly with freshly falling snow. The sky was a bleeding heart, purple hues pumping down into a rich red, falling down the New York Skyline. Stars replaced by skyscrapers and airplanes, shooting stars in their own rights. 

It was quiet, as quiet as Queens could be anyway. There was little more than the wooshing of cars as they passed, a few honks, some rampant shouts but for the most part the city that never slept was sleeping.

Peter liked these nights. They made his city feel at peace, like she’d retired from a long and pitiful war, weary and broken and ready for a nap. There were nights that Peter felt never ended, nights when he’d never forgotten the look of a child torn from their parents too soon or the haunting image of shoes poking out from a dumpster, a young college kid overdosed from experimental meth. 

Some days the world felt too heavy for Peter to bear, too messed up, too demanding, too wishing. He was just a kid, he couldn’t, shouldn’t have to mature this quickly. But then he’d hear a twisted cry and turn to see someone fall, a loved one rush over, shouting for help. 

Uncle Ben wanted him to have this. Loved his powers and loved what he did with them. He’d grown up a long time ago, somewhere between his parents vanishing and his Uncle dying. The world asked for nothing more from Peter, nothing but him to accept who he was and to serve with humble pride. 

When he was little and the aching mass of loneliness used to nestle too close to his rib cage he used to wake at times like this, when the night was bleeding into dawn and the bustling city quieted down to a gentle home. He’d get up, count the lights he could see, the colors in the sky, the car honks. Used to count them and add them up for all he was grateful for. It didn’t help his hurting much but it made him feel better. He’d hoped if he was kind enough, if he was grateful and hopeful and lively enough he’d wake up one of those days and instead of counting the colors in the sky he could count the colors in his father’s eyes, the wrinkles on his mother’s face, the syllables in his parent’s laughs. 

His childhood faded into adolescence without that wish coming true but the kindness he’d learned, the gratefulness, the hope he’d gathered for his life never did fade. 

An alarm went off on his phone and Peter startled, pulling his attention from his thoughts. It was morning, full-on dawn, and Peter needed to end his patrol to get home in time. 

As Peter swung the city awakened again, taxis honked and businessmen shouted, kids darted between buildings, playing, and their mothers shouted about breakfast out the window. The quiet had been broken, but, somehow, the noise was softer this morning. Like the peaceful night could revitalize the city long after it had passed. When Peter swung into his room, tucking into his bed moments before May entered the softness remained. Even when she leaned in, kissed the crown of his head and left to wallow in her room for the rest of the day. 

The ache in his chest bloomed again just like his childhood. Underneath his floorboards was a box with his parent’s heirlooms and later in the day, when he was braver, he’d shuffle through it. But for now, he’d ride the soft wave, muffling his sobs in his pillow, fingering the picture of his parents he kept on his mattress, counting all the ways he was like them. Counting all the ways his smile looked like his dad’s, all the ways his speech mimicked his mom’s, all the ways that he could be grateful on the anniversary of their death. He couldn’t bring them back from the vanished but he could revitalize them with his own peaceful, mournful, thoughtful silence. 

And maybe, when his peace faded, it would carry through.

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you liked this snippet focusing on Peter's inner thoughts. I've always wanted to write a piece like this for his character and I'm really happy how it turned out. As always if you liked it please leave a comment or kudos, they always make my day.
> 
> Thanks  
> -C


End file.
